


soft

by kirkaut



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Body Worship, Coda, M/M, Pudgy Eggsy, Slightly OOC Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flesh about his waist and hips seems more forgiving, too, less severely jutting bones and carving muscle. Harry wishes to sink in his fingers there, pull Eggsy to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soft

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dig in your fingers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4326546) by [kirkaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut). 



> this was the ORIGINAL epilogue of 'dig in your fingers', but received a lot of comments about it being too out of character, apparently. so i just decided to make it its own story, and if people don't like the concept then they don't have to read it :)

**original epilogue to[dig in your fingers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4326546/chapters/9810921)**

 

Over thirteen hundred various dignitaries and heads of state are arrested in the wake of the aborted V-Day Massacre. The United States alone sees ninety percent of its government locked up, leading to a scramble for power and riots the likes of which the country had never before seen. The citizens seem to deem it reason enough to commit mass looting, acts of arson, and to gather lynch mobs against their fellow man. Various right wing extremist groups in the southern states rant and rave about how the decimation of their political system a sign of the imminent apocalypse.

A good portion of the extended Royal Family is incarcerated, too, but Harry finds he's rather gratified when he and Eggsy discover an irate Queen Elizabeth and a more subdued Prince Philip sequestered away within one of the bunker's many holding cells. The Duke of Cambridge and his brother, the very pregnant Duchess and their slumbering toddler are in adjacent cells, eager to be released.

There's a somewhat brusque inquiry as to the well-being of his parents (“Oh, they're doing quite well,” Harry reassures the Queen, patting at her hand where's it's firmly tucked into the crook of his arm. “They're planning on enjoying their summer holiday at our Hampstead estate. Mummy's taken to creating her own jams and jellies, and Father's gained nearly a stone for it.”) but otherwise the encounter is quite pleasant, despite the circumstances.

Eggsy trails along behind them, William and Harry escorting their exhausted grandfather and Kate aiding the Queen on her other side, which leaves Eggsy to look after the youngest prince. He's grinning and cooing at the now awake infant in his arms, beaming every time he gets a shrieking giggle for his efforts.

Since the entire family—minus Charles and Camilla, whose absence Harry doesn't wish to touch with a ten foot pole—is there against their will, they've no choice but to lead them to the waiting jet in the bunker's hangar. Merlin is glowering atop the small flight of stairs up until he realises just who, exactly they're escorting, and then he's all formal bows and thick brogue, taking their surprisingly sparse luggage and stowing it in the plane's belly himself.

Eggsy, Merlin, and himself are all knighted by the Queen in the most informal ceremony of all time, their spare Rainmaker serving in place of a sword. To her credit, when Roxy boards the plane she only freezes for a moment before offering a polite greeting and a curtsy. The Queen is quick to award her the formal title of 'Dame Morton,' but unofficially, and she says this with a conspiratorial wink Roxy's way, she can consider herself a knight as well.

Eggsy's an incorrigible little shit for a fortnight after the fact, insisting everyone at Kingsman refer to him as 'Sir Eggsy.' Harry puts an end to that rather quickly when he takes Eggsy home one evening and spends more than an hour fucking him, rigorous and sweat-soaked, growling 'Sir Eggsy' in his ear when he comes in his arse. After that, Eggsy can't hear his new title without blushing down to his very core, and begs off his earlier insistence, citing that the fun just isn't in it any more. 

Only Harry knows differently, and abuses that knowledge whenever Eggsy needs to be knocked down a peg or two, drifting in and whispering 'Sir Eggsy' against the shell of his ear.

After the disposal of Chester King's body and the arrest of three of their fellow Kingsmen (Caradoc, Hoel, and Tor, all of whom are not only fired and imprisoned, but stripped of their titles as Lords and Earl by order of the Queen, in exchange for a few of Mummy's elderberry jam jars), there's an abbreviated ceremony during which Harry is handed the title of Arthur. He very immediately turns to Eggsy and decrees him Galahad. After all, he reasons into the shocked wide set of Eggsy's eyes, he's more than proved himself worthy of Kingsman.

Roxy is decreed Lancelot within the same breath, and she and Eggsy both shake his hand, formal and polite, and then wrap one another up in fierce, cracking hugs. Merlin wraps an arm around Roxy's shoulders when they separate, the most public overture Harry's seen from him yet, and she beams up at him as she curls into his side. Harry and Eggsy, on the other hand, show no such restraint, much in the same way they haven't done for the entirety of their relationship. Eggsy launches himself at Harry, arms twining firmly around his neck and shoulders, fingers burying themselves deep into his hair as they kiss. Harry gathers him close, one hand pressed to the small of his back and the other between his shoulder blades.

When they pull apart, Harry presses a hard kiss into the skin just before Eggsy's ear, whispering, “There's no one greater I could imagine as my successor, my dear,” and feels the heat of Eggsy's flushed face against his cheek.

One day, not terribly long after Eggsy's officially been inducted into Kingsman, Harry sequesters himself into a dark and quiet corner of the Black Prince, sans glasses and clad in civilian wear but still armed with a Rainmaker should needs arise. He's there for a good twenty minutes before Dean, Eggsy's mum, and Dean's gang arrive, and he slouches in his seat and buries his face in his Ian Fleming novel, doing his best impression of a man who only wishes to be left alone.

Dean Baker and his brutes don't even spare him a first glance, much less a second. Harry sips at his pint of Guinness and awaits Eggsy's arrival. When he graces the doorway of the pub, he looks as delectable as ever in the bespoke suit Harry personally measured and had made. Shoulders back, spine straight, exuding confidence—he's a _vision._

Harry smirks into his drink when Eggsy crosses to the door, deliberately turning locks and bolting them shut. He's perfectly content to sit back and play the part of scared bystander if it means he's allowed the luxury of watching Eggsy in a solo fight.

And Christ, the boy does not disappoint. Harry mourns that he never had the chance to see Eggsy fight his way through Valentine's bunker, that Merlin hoards the transmission recording out of Harry's reach because he “knows what you'll do with it, you sick bastard.” Harry knows that his own fighting style is sharp and fierce, honed into perfection with years of practice and application, but Eggsy...

Eggsy is sheer bloody poetry in motion, body bending and twisting and lithe in ways that seem to defy all previously conceived laws of physics. Not only does he know how to handle himself and use the violent momentum of his aggressors to his defence, but he also knows how to use their bodies as a platform for his next movement without ever telegraphing a thing.

He sucker punches the heavy-set, small and paunchy fellow whom Harry remembers as the one to make that wretched 'rent boy' comment all those months ago, and when he bends in half, winded, Eggsy grabs onto his shoulders and hefts himself into the air, kicking out at the man approaching them from behind and sending him crashing to the ground.

 

Eggsy's feet plant against the very dented railing up against the bar and he pushes himself up and into a back flip, dragging the man down into the ground, hard, even as he lands gracefully on his feet himself. He doesn't even pause before he's lifting one leg and swinging it so forcefully into a kick that his other leg leaves the ground entirely, body twirling in the air. His current target looks so genuinely stunned by the motion that it's no trouble, no trouble at all, for Eggsy to hook an arm around his neck and use his centripetal force to haul the bulk of the body to the pub floor, signet ring pressed into his neck for good measure.

The tall, lanky fellow who'd unloaded his pitifully small pistol at Harry during his own brawl, grits his crooked blood stained teeth and charges towards Eggsy, who quickly rolls away and out of his path before popping back up to his feet and hooking the handle of his umbrella around the man's neck. Harry sends up a prayer to Merlin for his development of the titanium steel alloy that makes up the barrel and handle of the umbrella, because its durability means Eggsy's able to pull back, hard, without risking fracturing the weapon. He drives a knee into the tall man's back and he goes to ground with a whimper.

The sprawl of bodies is impressive, and far neater than Harry was capable of when he did the same: less blood, hardly any broken glass (save for the mug that cracked into Dean's skull with a truly satisfying splinter), and no spilt liquor to speak of.

The bartender pushes the door from the kitchen open and peeks out. He sees Eggsy, standing in the middle of a room full of unconscious bodies, and then he sees Harry, tucked into a corner and raising his pint glass in greeting. He exhales through his nose, slow and loud, and disappears back into the kitchen, door swinging shut behind him. Harry almost frowns; perhaps that amnesia dart he'd dosed him with wasn't quite potent enough.

Michelle gets to her feet, legs wobbling. She'd collapsed back into the booth when the violence had begun, and she's had the same expression of shock on her face the entire time. Eggsy's cocky, happy smirk dims significantly when he catches sight of the look on her face, body language wilting when she comes to a crouch over Dean's unconscious, bleeding body, and brushes a hand over the cuts in his forehead.

“Mum,” Eggsy begins. He doesn't get much further than that, because Michelle balls her hand into a fist, draws back her arm, and punches her husband in the face. There's the crunch of cartilage and thin bone beneath her knuckles as Dean's nose breaks, the man letting out a pitiful groan even though he's knocked out cold. She shakes out her hand, hissing, and presses her knuckles against her mouth as she stands.

“Eggsy,” she breathes, dropping her bruised hand into the other. He takes a wary step forward, but when she reaches for him he ducks his cheek quickly into her palm. “Babe, where'd you learn to do that?”

“I tol'ya,” Eggsy mumbles, and drapes himself around his mother in a tight embrace. Harry knows how desperately he's missed her, and his sister. “I got a proper new gig, mum.”

“What?” she asks, disbelieving even as she reaches up to stroke a hand against the short hairs on the back of his head. Eggsy nestles further into her arms. “And tailors these days go 'round smashing heads in, do they?”

“...yes?” Eggsy tries, giving her a sheepish look as he pulls away. She purses her lips at him, eyebrows doing something that clearly indicates disapproval, and Harry takes that as his cue to make his presence known.

With a gentle clearing of his throat and the 'thwap' of his novel snapping shut, he catches their attention. Michelle starts and turns towards him, bracing herself against Eggsy in a protective stance despite the fact that she now has visceral and visual confirmation that he's more than able of taking care of himself. A faint hint of recognition dances across her face, arms relaxing minutely. Harry can nearly see the cogs of her mind working, attempting to place him. He supposes he does look rather different now, seventeen years older and in a pair of expensive blue jeans and a linen shirt as opposed to his Kingsman issued suit.

When he stands and comes closer, Eggsy's eyes are warm and very nearly blue behind his glasses, meshing with the usual mossy green of them to create a pleasing turquoise colour. He refrains from staring into them too long in favour of extending a hand to Michelle, pulling her knuckles to his lips when she hesitantly reaches back.

“We really must stop meeting under dire circumstances,” he says drily. “And as for your inquiry: some tailors, yes.”

Michelle's hand drops limply to her side when he releases it. “I thought that was you,” she says quietly, something nearly mournful in her tone. She turns around to Eggsy, arms crossed over her stomach. “Got a job at a _tailor's_ , hmm?” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder back towards Harry. “Mind explaining what your dad's old squad member is doin' here, then?”

Eggsy blanches, so Harry takes it upon himself to suggest they move their conversation elsewhere—perhaps somewhere not quite so littered with unconscious bodies. Which is how they wind up in the dreadfully familiar scene of Harry intruding in the Unwin's small apartment, sipping at a glass of water and listening to Michelle rail on about Eggsy putting himself in danger, how could he do this to her, to _Daisy_ , and does he want to end up just like his father?

Then she turns on Harry.

His cheek stings for a full day after, skin sensitive and humming from the force of her slaps. One for dragging Eggsy into peril, and another for falling in love with her son.

It takes time and no small amount of coaxing, but Michelle warms to him, marginally and eventually. By the time the air has started to crisp, summer cooling into autumn, he's a regular Sunday dinner staple at the house Eggsy had procured for his mum and sister, only a few doors down from Harry's own in the mews. Eggsy allegedly lives there as well, but the room he claims as his own is sparse of his belongings, most of which are scattered throughout the rooms of Harry's house.

He never officially moves in, for Harry never actually asks, but it becomes clear enough that it's his home, as well. Framed photographs of vintage cars join the slew of ornithological diagrams and original etchings that Harry has hung up in his hall, and there are more than a few pictures of Michelle and Daisy and JB perched above the mantle of the fireplace in his front room. On Harry's bureau sits a photograph, faintly grainy and from a mobile's camera, of he and Eggsy in the Kingsman shop. Roxy had taken the picture, discreetly, and Merlin had enhanced it and had it printed for them after he spilled coffee down the slacks of Harry's favourite suit.

In the photograph, caught between the confines of a silver frame, Harry stands behind the register, silk pocket squares in hand and an indulgent smile on his face, eyes glinting and warm and head tilted just so, very obviously and disgustingly endeared by whatever Eggsy's saying. Eggsy, for his part, is wearing the suit of Harry's own design—his favourite, he insists—and leaning carelessly across the heavily polished wood of the counter. One hand outstretched and fiddling with the same segment of fabric caught in Harry's grip, their fingers brushing together, but his eyes are fixed firmly on Harry's face and his smile wide.

Harry's never seen himself so lovestruck in all his life. It's one thing to be aware of the depths of your feelings, of the vibrancy of your emotions, and quite another to see it laid out upon your own features.

The two of them squabble, certainly, for no relationship is perfect and one between two spies is bound to see its fair share of arguments. Eggsy allows JB on the bed despite Harry's insistence that the dog belongs no such place. Eggsy is unsettled by the stuffed figure of Mr. Pickle that looms above him when he uses the toilet in the front hall, and they get into a scorching row over his presence. Harry finds himself infuriated when Eggsy takes impulsive chances in the field, diverting from standard protocol because his instincts tell him to. Those protocols are in place for a _reason_ , Harry informs him bitingly, and just because he's fucking Arthur doesn't mean there won't be repercussions for endangering himself and other agents.

(It is, all in all, a rather unfortunate way of expressing his concern, and has the disastrous side effect of Eggsy sleeping at his mother's for a week. Harry's bed is cold, too large, and the way Eggsy's eyes skip over him when they come across each other at HQ is utterly intolerable. He does a fair bit of grovelling for that one. JB's a warm lump at the foot of their bed every night, from then on.)

Their life together is not so simple, nor quite so average, but it is a happy one.

And then comes the day that Eggsy sulks his way into their front room after having come home from a fitting at the shop for a new suit (flame and acid retardant) and lumps himself onto the sofa beside Harry with a miserable little groan. Harry, who's been doing nothing more than filling out endless amounts of tedious paperwork and watching a Strictly Come Dancing marathon with the volume on low, finds it's no trouble to focus all of his attention on Eggsy when he curls up even tighter against Harry's side.

“What's this?” he asks, lifting an arm about Eggsy's shoulders and scratching at his scalp. Eggsy sighs, soft and sad, and there's a very irrational part of Harry's brain that vows violent retribution towards whoever has caused that sound to exist.

“Leo took my measurements,” he muffles into the skin of Harry's neck, the words caught in the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the hollow of his throat. “I've gained two inches in me waist and arse.” He lifts his head only to knock it back into Harry's shoulder, and confides with a sour tone: “I'm podgy.”

It's...not untrue. Eggsy _has_ gained weight in the months since the V-Day fiasco, a result of eating proper and regular meals and Harry's propensity for heavy, cream-based sauces. It hasn't been entirely accidental, either, on Harry's part. There had been a revealing afternoon of looking over old albums from Eggsy's childhood, going from the round faced young boy he'd first encountered to a thin, bony adolescent.

(“I did my best to feed him up,” Michelle informs him, tone sad and self-loathing, “those nights when Dean sent him to bed without supper and wouldn't let him have breakfast the next day. Pasties under the door, sweets tucked beneath his pillows. But he was afraid that Dean would know and hurt me for it. Begged me to stop.” She lets out a frustrated huff of air through her nose. “I should have done better.”

Harry had laid his hand across her own, trembling against the thick pages of the album. “I think,” he says, gentle, “that you've done quite well, given the circumstances. You've raised quite the man.”

She had smiled at him, small and watery but warm, and that had been the end of any and all hostility she still retained towards him.)

“Darling, you're being dramatic,” Harry soothes, shifting away enough that Eggsy is forced to lift his head and look at him. Harry kisses at the furrow between his brows. “As I recall, you possessed only five percent body fat when you first joined as a recruit. I can't imagine a few pounds making a terrible amount of difference.”

“A stone,” Eggsy says flatly, pushing himself off the sofa and stripping off his polo in the angriest displacement of clothing Harry's ever witnessed. He bares his torso and plants his hands on the—admittedly curvier—dip in his waist. “A fucking _stone._ I feel minging. Fucking rotten, me.”

Now that he's looking for it, Harry sees where the changes have occurred. Eggsy's face is less sharp, jaw rounder and cheekbones less pronounced. He doesn't look quite as severe as when they had first met, and the extra around his jawline makes him seem...kinder. It makes no sense, Harry knows, but the Eggsy he had met had been all angles and harsh words, a body built to fight back out of dire need.

His chest and shoulders are still taut, well defined and lovely, as is his stomach, save for the little pouching belly he's begun to develop from Harry's heavy cooking and ingesting three proper meals every single day. The flesh about his waist and hips seems more forgiving, too, less severely jutting bones and carving muscle. Harry wishes to sink in his fingers there, pull Eggsy to him.

So he does.

He drags his half naked lover to him and mouths at the warm, soft layer of fat that curves over the still well-defined muscles of his abdomen. He presses in, deeper, and can feel the strength of them when Eggsy tenses.

“You smell like sweat,” he murmurs, dragging his nose up the line of dark hair between Eggsy's denims and his navel. “And gunpowder.”

Eggsy reaches out, haltingly, and places his hands upon Harry's shoulders, smoothing his fingers up until they can tangle in his hair. “Me and Rox were shootin' clay discs in the manor's yard,” he says, still eyeing Harry warily. From this angle, there's a roll beneath his chin that Harry wants to bite, wants to kiss and lick and leave his mark upon.

“A bath, perhaps?” he suggests, rising to his feet in one smooth motion, keeping his fingers against Eggsy's hips, fingers slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs to tease lower, against the thin and silky skin covering his pelvis. Eggsy inhales through his nose, lust warring with the irritation in his eyes.

“You joinin' in?” he asks.

“In a fashion,” Harry agrees, and begins to lead them both towards the stairs, pausing only to grab the remote and turn off the telly. He keeps himself only a step behind Eggsy as they ascend, refusing to relinquish his grip and skimming kisses against the birthmarks scattered over Eggsy's shoulders whenever their stride allows for it.

He guides Eggsy into their bedroom, towards the master bath, stopping at the linen cupboard to grab one of their newer sets of towels and the bottle of lavender bubble bath Eggsy loves but uses sparingly, having baulked at the price when he'd accompanied Harry to the speciality shop for bath salts and candles and the gentle face wash Harry requires for his morning routine.

Once the door to the bathroom is shut behind them, Harry draws the bath, twisting the taps and testing the temperature until it's overly warm without being scalding and without running the risk of growing cool and tepid too soon. He adds a generous squirt of the lather beneath the running water, and as the bubbles froth and grow, he turns back to Eggsy.

The button of his fly comes undone easily enough, the rough metal of his zip catching on the fabric of his pants. Harry slips the jeans down, over his hips and over his thighs—which have also gained a pleasing curve over the heavy, solid muscle of them. It's more prominent towards the top, where his legs curve round to form his bum, and _that's_ an idea that Harry will be exploring thoroughly later. His calves are hairy, still tight and sculpted, and Harry lays kisses by his knees when he steps out of his trousers.

His briefs follow the same torturous, delectable path and join the puddle of fabric on the tiled floor.

Harry's taken his time in accomplishing both of these tasks, so by the time Eggsy is completely starkers, the bath is full and threatening to overflow with bubbles. He twists off the taps, the room strangely and yawningly silent without the rush of water.

“Ain't you coming in?” Eggsy asks, gesturing to Harry's still clothed body. He's only in a pair of cotton pyjama pants and a tee of Eggsy's that swam on the younger man but settled comfortably across the width of Harry's shoulders. It smells of him, of _them_ , and it's Harry's favourite item of clothing for lounging about in the house.

“Not tonight,” he denies finally, but steers Eggsy towards the bath nonetheless. “I'm afraid I'd taken a shower not more than an hour before you arrived home. That doesn't mean I won't enjoy assisting in your relaxation, my dear.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes but steps into the tub carefully, gripping onto Harry's hand until he's settled in with his back against the slope of the giant claw foot tub. Beside the large basin, Harry pulls up the solid wooden box that houses their laundry hamper, just the right heigh that he can sit upon it and lean over the lip of the tub with no undue strain on his back. He rubs a hand over the slick expanse of Eggsy's shoulders as the younger man pushes the bubbles into the water, making the mountains disappear into a thin layer of foam that's no less fragrant.

Harry presses on his back until Eggsy tilts forward, then cups a hand into the water and lifts it to wet the hairs on Eggsy's head. He continues this motion until his head is suitably wet, and then squirts a dollop of his own shampoo onto Eggsy's head and begins massaging at his scalp with firm fingers, until the soap begins to lather.

Eggsy hums, pushing his head into Harry's touch.

“For what it's worth,” Harry says into the calm of the bathroom. “I find you quite attractive, extra stone or not. I will admit it's...gratifying, to see the physical result of you being well cared for, well nourished, and by my own hand.”

“What,” Eggsy asks, eyebrows raising even though his eyes remain shut against the drip of shampoo down his forehead, “and a bit of extra 'bout my stomach does it for you, does it?”

“Yes,” Harry tells him plainly. “Because I love you something selfish and fierce, and if it's _you_ that the...'bit of extra' is attached to, I can quite happily assure you that it does, in fact, _do it for me_. If you're discontent with your appearance, or if it begins to affect your performance in the field and endangers your fellow agents, I'm damn well going to increase your mandated exercise allotment until you're just as fit as before. I'm quite content to love you, and make love to you, no matter how much you may gain or lose, no matter the scars, and if I have to prove it to you, then so be it.”

Eggsy squints at him through thinly slit eyes. “And how're you gonna do that, Haz?”

“Don't call me that,” Harry rebuffs absently, automatically, the same way he's done since Eggsy first hauled out the nickname a few months back. He'd called Merlin 'Mezzy' once, and never again. Harry wishes Merlin would tell him what he said to Eggsy to get him to stop so that he could grant himself the same favour.

Eggsy exhales a laugh through his nose. “Still,” he persists.

“Am I not doing a sufficient job?” Harry wonders, cupping more water between his palms and letting it run the soap out of Eggsy's hair. “Grab the loofah, would you, darling? Thank you.” He drizzles body wash onto the rough sponge and scrubs it over the line of Eggsy's shoulders, moving in small circles across his skin. He dips his hand into the water when he follows the line of Eggsy's spine down, making sure to cover the entire expanse of his back.

Eggsy seems to be nearly asleep by the time he's finished, soothed into a stupor. “Lift your arm,” Harry instructs, fingers curling around his bicep. Eggsy does as he's instructed and Harry cleans him there as well, and then the other arm when he's finished. Thorough, gentle, and with no small amount of affection for the sleepy young man in his care. He leans in and presses a kiss to Eggsy's damp temple, pressing the sponge into his chest. “Do you think perhaps you could attend to the rest of yourself?” he murmurs, trailing two fingers down Eggsy's spine and into the cleft of his arse, making his intention clear. He gets a sharp inhale for his trouble, Eggsy's bleary eyes blinking open. “I'm going to tidy up the bedroom.”

“Yeah, alright,” Eggsy says, and the sponge disappears into the water, down his chest and stomach and headed towards his groin. Harry excuses himself to the bedroom before he can do something foolish like climb fully clothed into the tub and displace water all over the floor.

While he's in their room, he picks up the small piles of dirty laundry and tosses them into the hamper in the corner. Then he gathers up the empty water glasses at their bedside tables, along with the small bowl out of which Eggsy had been eating scrambled eggs that morning, and takes them quickly to the kitchen so that they can be laid in the sink.

There comes the sound of water running through the pipes, of dirty water being drained and fresh water pouring in. He thinks of Eggsy, wet and cleaning himself upstairs, and takes the stairs two at a time.

He does a cursory remaking of the bedsheets, pulling them back into place and fluffing the pillows, and quickly pulls the bottle of lubricant from the drawer next to his side of the bed.

He enters the bathroom once he's finished, unfolding the towel from where he'd set it upon the toilet, and holds it up width-wise. “Out you get,” he says, nodding to Eggsy's supine form.

With a groan and what certainly seems to be a large amount of effort, Eggsy pulls the stopper and hauls himself up and out of the tub, standing on the bath mat and waiting for Harry to encompass him in the towel and his embrace. Harry wraps the towel about his shoulders and rubs gently, drying up the moisture that runs, beading, down his neck and chest. Eggsy nudges him away, not unkindly, and lifts a corner to scrub out the excess water in his hair, revealing the relaxed state of his torso. He must have been flexing a bit, earlier, when he initially stripped off his shirt, because the lower part of his belly pouches out a bit further than before, the abs above his navel only slightly less well defined for it. Harry drops carefully to his knees against the large bathmat, and nuzzles back into tbe subtle swell of him, pressing kisses into the clean, flushed skin.

He digs his thumbs into the less prominent vee of Eggsy's hip bones, drawing him nearer. He feels the prick below stir, already half-hard and wanting.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, sounding embarrassed but smiling through it. “Christ, your _knees_ , get the fuck off the floor, man.”

Loathe as he is to leave his newly adored spot on Eggsy's stomach, he knows that his knees will, in fact, be screaming in the morning should he remain on the hard tile any longer, so he rises slowly to his feet with Eggsy's assistance, hands knotted together. Keeping them clasped, he draws Eggsy out of the steamy room and into the bedroom until they're beside the bed. He pushes the damp towel off, lets it tumble to a pile on the floor. Eggsy stands bare before him, damp and goose-pimpling all along his arms and chest, a defiant lift of his jaw despite his own admitted self-consciousness about his body.

Harry draws him in, lifting up as he does so, and Eggsy rises onto the tip of his toes accordingly, until his feet just barely skim the ground. Harry carries him the last remaining inches to the bed and lays him down, following Eggsy's body with his own. Eggsy's knees bend and his thighs splay open, cradling Harry's pyjama covered hips against his own nude set.

“There,” Harry begins, gathering Eggsy's hands into his own and pressing them down into the mattress above his head, knuckles brushing against the headboard. “You see? Just as gorgeous as ever.”

“Shut up, man,” Eggsy mutters, blushing slightly in the apples of his cheeks and more violently at the tips of his ears.

“I'll do no such thing,” Harry says, and leans down to skim kisses against the heated flush of his cheeks. He moves his mouth up, presses three kisses across Eggsy's forehead—in the centre, to the left, and to the right, and then drags his lips down the bridge of his nose until he can kiss the pointed tip of it. “What sort of a man would I be,” he asks, sotto voce, into the divot of Eggsy's chin. When he speaks next, it's into the bow of his upper lip, the groove of his philtrum. “If I were remiss in telling you, as often as I can, just how very much I love you?” He kisses at the corner of Eggsy's mouth. “That I want you?” The other corner. “Or how I think you're terribly misguided in allowing yourself to be shackled to a dirty old man like myself?” Eggsy frowns and squeezes his knees around Harry's hips in protest. “Not worry, darling,” Harry reassures, and dips in for a soft, wet kiss. “I'm far too selfish to let you go if you aren't trying to leave.”

“What if I never want to leave, eh?” Eggsy's hands flex beneath his grip when he strains upwards for another kiss.

“I'm sure I'll find something to do with you,” Harry promises, and then tucks his face beneath Eggsy's chin, kissing and licking at his neck. He laves his attention there, in the wider set of Eggsy's jaw, sucking a dark bruise against the sharp hinge, another in the centre of his throat atop the birthmark there. When he starts to move lower, tongue dragging across the valley of his clavicle, he releases his grip on Eggsy's hands in favour of smoothing them down his sides to curl over the fleshy softness in his sides.

Eggsy leaves his hands above his head, fisted into the sheets. Leaves himself spread, open for the taking.

“Very good,” Harry praises him in whisper, a susurrus against his skin, and kisses at the rosy peak of his nipple before dragging his teeth across it. Eggsy lets out a whine and arches his chest further into Harry's mouth, breathing raggedly when he runs the flat of his tongue across the sensitive bud. He pays the same attention to the other side, until Eggsy's chest is heaving with the quickness of his breaths.

Harry runs his nose down, between his pectorals and over the ridge of his upper abdominal muscles, and comes to a stop at the place in Eggsy's belly where the recently formed layer of fat resides. “Eggsy,” he says, pressing the word into the body below him. “You lovely creature.” He bites into the skin, catching flesh between teeth more easily than ever before now that it isn't pulled taut against the muscle. Eggsy squirms a bit at the attention, turning his face away so that his cheek is pressed against the mattress, nosing into the soft flesh of his underarm. Harry relinquishes his grasp on Eggsy's hip to reach up and tilt his chin back towards his chest so that their eyes meet. “None of that,” he admonishes, swiping a thumb against the centre of Eggsy's bottom lip, down his chin.

Eggsy's jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, but he keeps his gaze on Harry.

Satisfied, Harry returns his attention to the dip and give of Eggsy's navel, digging his fingers into the now recognised bit of extra round his middle, relishing at the way his fingers sink in. He takes time to suck precise, dark circles in the places the curve is most pronounced beneath his lips, laving attention there so that Eggsy can make no mistake on just how attractive he is, no matter this added weight.

His thighs tremble against Harry's forearms, pressed there to keep him splayed open, and his cock is hard and jutting up, flushed and terribly enticing. The head of it bumps into the underside of Harry's chin as he's pulling an especially lurid love bite to the surface in the space above Eggsy's belly-button. He pulls back when he's satisfied with the mouth shaped bruise, and ducks his head only a scant few inches to draw Eggsy into his mouth.

Clean skin, pre-come, a hint of soap, and the sound of Eggsy's bitten off curse. These are a few of Harry's favourite things.

Eggsy's hands finally leave their position above his head to twin fingers gently through Harry's wavy hair, nails scraping into his scalp. His pelvis is giving unconscious little jumps upward with every sucking push and pull of Harry's mouth on his prick, small moans being gut-punched out of him every so often.

Harry pulls back and lets the cock fall from his lips and back against Eggsy's stomach, spit-slicked and shining, and focuses his attention on the wrinkling crease of his bollocks, mouthing at them and drawing them onto his tongue. Eggsy circles a hand around himself—not stroking or squeezing, but simply holding, as if to abate some dire need for touch there.

Harry swipes his tongue along the back of Eggsy's scrotum just to hear the strangled yelp of his own name.

“Shit,” Eggsy breathes, and his fingers tighten against the strands between them.

“Turn over, darling,” Harry implores, moving back just enough that Eggsy can do just that, legs tangling briefly at the ankles before he sets them a metre apart, baring his arse to Harry's hungry gaze.

He sinks his fingers into the generous mound of Eggsy's arse, made slightly more round by his gained weight, by the food Harry has made him, muscles made taut by the training Kingsman has given him. Harry spreads his cheeks apart with his thumbs, fingers skidding over the soft and pale flesh that bunches together with the parting.

“This is one of my favourite places on your body,” Harry admits, massaging his fingers in and watching the skin redden and flush beneath his touch. “Other than your mouth, of course, which is second only to your eyes.”

“My eyes?” Eggsy repeats, voice muffled where his head is buried into the bend of his elbow. “Christ, you fucking romantic tit. No love for my cock, then?”

“Did I not just have my mouth on you?” Harry points out, and then leans in to lick a broad stripe up the crease, dragging his tongue over his hole. Eggsy inhales sharply, tensing and relaxing all at once so that his spine rolls. When he's finished, he says, “My fourth favourite, then, but by a very small margin, if you must be so insolent.”

“Me?!” Eggsy props himself up on his elbows and twists the best he can, glaring at Harry over the slump of his shoulder. “You're one to talk, you tetchy wanker.”

“Enough of that,” Harry tells him, and dips back down to kiss messily at Eggsy's arse, tongue prodding at his hole. Eggsy grunts and collapses once more, though he does so reluctantly, muttering under his breath all the while. If he's still able for form halfway coherent sentences, Harry must not be doing his job properly. He presses his face further in, slips his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, and licks in where the taste of Eggsy is its most potent. Beneath the tang of soap and the slight hint of sweat, there's an essence there that Harry adores, all musky flesh and something nearly sweet.

Eggsy, for all that he's a mouthy little shit, tends to go very, very silent when Harry eats out his arse, letting loose only little sighs and hitching moans that lose themselves to the covers. His hips twitch down into the mattress to grant himself some friction, but he doesn't thrust far enough that he dislodges Harry's mouth, and gives himself over to the act in a manner he doesn't quite manage in other areas of the bedroom.

It's the total submission, Harry believes, that allows Eggsy to give himself over to silence. He cherishes the trust laid in him to be allowed to take control of Eggsy in this way, to lay him out and keep him vulnerable and press into him so intimately. Harry feels as though he's never truly enjoyed this act before seeing how Eggsy shivers underneath his ministrations, how his spine goes liquid at the prod of Harry's tongue inside him, the gentle gasps when a finger delves in as well.

For now, Harry is quite content to prise him apart with his thumbs, murmuring praises and endearments into the warm crevice between his buttocks, in between his probing licks. Eggsy sighs and shakes, and it's only when he says Harry's name, almost inaudibly, does he relent. He releases his hold on Eggsy's bum and raises up onto his knees so that he can reach over to the bottle of lubricant on the bedside table.

He drizzles some into the crack between his index finger and middle finger when they're pressed together, careful not to spill any when he moves his hand back to where his spit is cooling and tacky between Eggsy's thighs. He's loose, relaxed, and takes the two easily, fingers clenching into the pillow with pleasure. “Harry,” he groans, and rocks back into the touch, and despite how much Harry relishes the silence given when he bares his arse to Harry's mouth, he always finds that he's missed the sound of Eggsy's voice terribly once he begins to speak anew. “Yeah, love, like that.”

Harry crooks his fingers, nudges into the gland of his prostate, and Eggsy clenches down around him and swears. “Ain't gonna last long if you do that again, Haz,” he warns, voice rough.

“Don't call me that,” Harry says, and slides a third finger into where Eggsy is slick and pliant. His fingers push in and pull out, wrist twisting for sensation as he does, and keeps the pace slow and tantalising. He bends down and bites at Eggsy's sides, putting the marks of his teeth in places he had not managed earlier, hunches over to flick his tongue across where his fingers stretch a ring of muscle, bearing the synthetic taste of lubricant if only for the way it makes Eggsy shudder and groan, begging for more.

“Please,” Eggsy grits, driving his hips back. Harry follow the movement, keeping his fingers at a distance, drawing out the pleasure. “Harry, fuck, _please_ , babe, just fuck me, yeah? Get in me, love, need you—need your cock in me, wanna feel you come, fuck. _Fuck_ , please, I'm gonna—soon.”

“As you wish,” Harry agrees, withdrawing from his body, and shoves his pyjama pants down his hips, rucks up his shirt beneath his arms so that he can wet his cock. It's odd, being almost fully clothed while Eggsy is naked as the day before him, but there's something utterly thrilling about it as well; the way that bits of Eggsy are still hidden to him, how their flesh doesn't fully meet even as Harry slides inside the hot clutch of him.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Eggsy swears, reaching back to grope at Harry's arse, tangling his fingers in the bit of cotton he can reach, pulling the waist of the pyjama pants tightly against the backs of Harry's thighs. “Fuck, 'm not gonna last—gonna last very long.”

“Nor I,” Harry pants, snapping his hips forward and thrusting into Eggsy. “Which is incredibly frustrating, as I've been trying my best to do this slowly, darling, to try and show you just how much I love you.”

“I fuckin' know that already,” Eggsy laughs, letting go of Harry's pants, and tilts himself to the side just a bit so that he can hook his elbow around Harry’s neck and draw him in for a messy, wet kiss. “Shit, you tell me every fucking day, Harry, I know you love me. So just...just fuck me already, yeah?” He shivers all over when Harry drives in with another long thrust, head of his cock skimming against his prostate if the way his eyes flutter shut is any indication. “I'm gonna come soon either way.”

“Yes,” Harry growls, splaying a hand across the expanse of Eggsy's throat and holding him there. He begins to fuck him in earnest, hips slapping noisily with every shove inside, knees digging into the mattress to give himself leverage. “Yes, Eggsy, that's it my darling boy—so tight, my love, so hot around me. I want you to come, sweetheart, I want you to touch yourself and come while I'm inside you.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy groans, slipping his arm from around Harry's shoulders and wedging it between his body and the mattress, lifting up his hips enough that he can work himself furiously, canting back into Harry's cock at the same time. “Shit, yeah.”

Harry drags his hand down the sweaty line of Eggsy's throat, over his chest, and cups at the modest belly he's developed, digging his fingers in and holding tightly. “I love you like this,” he grunts harshly into Eggsy's ear, biting at the lobe between the words. “So hot and soft beneath me, letting me take care of you, letting me feed you up—knowing you find such comfort here, with me, in this bed, in our home.”

“Our home,” Eggsy breathes, and it sounds like a revelation. The tendons in his neck stand out and cord when he throws his head back, choking on a strangled shout of Harry's name when he comes.

Harry digs in his fingers, soft beneath the clench of them, and scrapes his teeth against Eggsy's shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times more, and comes with a gasping inhale.

Later, when Eggsy's tucked comfortably against his side and away from the wet spot, the younger man rubs a hand across Harry's collarbone and asks, “Harry?”

He hums in response, come-dumb and drowsy.

Eggsy nestles against the apex of his underarm and says, “You ever think about what might've happened if you hadn't of kissed me after the first test?”

Harry has, in fact, wondered over such a thing. If he hadn't bent to Merlin's request to help oversee, would he have ever had the time to take Eggsy aside and kiss him and come between his thighs? He suspects he knows how it all would have played out: a fond, if distant, relationship between the two of them, Harry still on the case of Lancelot's death. Eggsy passing test after test with flying colours except, perhaps, when it came to shooting JB. Harry can't imagine the swell of bitter disappointment he would feel at the loss of such potential, but there'd hardly be time to dwell, since in the same day he would have been doomed to die in the sweltering Kentucky heat.

Perhaps Valentine would have succeeded, and all would have been for naught.

“It doesn't bear thinking about,” he says, turning Eggsy in his arms until he looms above him, fingers brushing back his sweat soaked fringe and trailing down the side of his face, over the rounded edge of his jaw. “But I'm sure we would have found our way to one another eventually.”

“You think?” Eggsy asks, looping his arms around Harry's neck and drawing him down. He sounds curious but mostly hopeful, like he wishes Harry would believe that the two of them would have still ended up in the same bed, lazily discussing what to do for Sunday dinner.

“My dear,” Harry informs, saccharine but serious, and leans in to press a soft kiss against the pout of Eggsy's mouth. “How could I have stayed away? I suspect I was always meant to fall in love with you.”

“You soppy shit,” Eggsy beams, fond and happy.

Harry kisses him again and bears him down into the mattress, hands clasping him close.

He digs his fingers in, and vows never to let go.

 

 

 

**the end.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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